Chapter 22

The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

> Severe Gauntlets have forced direwolf packs down from the Brellan Spine once more. When the Frosmuth River freezes, these predators cross in search of food, targeting villages and livestock. Previous winters have seen devastating losses, which left some settlements in ruins. Frontier towns must be prepared to recognize the signs and take action.

>

> — Imperial Frontier Report, Year 309

Griffon eyed Godfrey as they finished their breakfast, his expression serious. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Look, boy,” he began, his voice steady but cautious, “I’m not overly comfortable with the idea of an armed man on my land, especially one with as much fire in him as you’ve got. But," he paused, considering his words, "you haven’t shown me any dishonor.”

Godfrey straightened. Griffon reached under the table and pulled out Godfrey’s weapons, setting them down in front of him. “These are yours. You’ve earned them, and you’ll get them back. Just know this: I’m trusting you with the safety of my family. Don't give me a reason to regret it, because you will. Regret it, I mean.”

Godfrey, taken aback, could only nod. “Somehow I don’t doubt that, sir. Thank you.”

Griffon leaned back in his chair, eyeing Godfrey once more, before speaking. "Well then, lad, let's get down to it. You need supplies for this journey of yours to Centria, and I don’t run a charity out here. What I can offer is this: you put in three days of work on the farm, and I'll make sure you're set to travel with enough food and gear to get you there in one piece."

Godfrey blinked, surprised by the offer. He sat forward slightly, but before he could agree, Griffon raised a hand. “But there's no use in you hanging around if you're not pulling your weight. So, what can you do?”

Godfrey hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at his hands. "I’ll be honest with you, Griffon," he began slowly, "I don’t have much experience with hunting. Never been good with a bow either. Tried it a few times, and I’m shit at it."

Griffon grunted, unsurprised but unbothered. “Hunting’s not the only work around here, boy. You can carry wood, haul water, stack stones—hell, you’ll learn quick enough.” He stood and crossed his arms. "You’ve got hands and a back. I’ll find something useful for you to do."

Godfrey nodded, feeling a small sense of relief. "I’ll work hard, I promise."

"Good," Griffon said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We’ll start in the morning. Three days starts then, and by the end of it, you’ll have what you need for your journey to Centria before the real winter storms kick in. But in the meantime..."

He leaned in closer, his eyes hardening, locking onto Godfrey’s, holding him in place with the weight of his gaze.

“Emily’s a bright, outgoing lass, full of life," Griffon said, his voice low and measured. "But she’s as pure as the driven snow, and a man dipped in death, bent on waging a one-man war, is not for her. She deserves better. And she’ll have better, even if I have to see to it myself.”

The warning was unmistakable. Griffon wasn’t asking—he was telling.

Godfrey shifted his weight, standing a little straighter as Griffon eyed him with a look that bordered between caution and curiosity. The older man’s fingers tapped idly on the table, the silence between them stretched thin.

Godfrey met Griffon’s gaze steadily. “I’ve no intention of causing trouble, especially not with your daughter. I’m just here to do the work and move on. That’s all.” His voice was calm but firm.

Griffon studied him for a moment longer, his brows furrowed in thought. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it disappointment?—but he gave a curt nod, as if accepting the answer, though perhaps not fully convinced.

"Good," Griffon grunted, leaning back in his chair. “Just remember what I said.”

Before either man could say more, the door creaked open and the warmth of the room was broken by a gust of cold air. Mary and Emily entered, their chatter filling the space with life once more.

“Well, looks like you two were having a serious conversation,” Mary said, eyeing the pair with a knowing smile. She moved to stoke the fire, while Emily brushed the snow off her boots before joining them.

Godfrey quickly composed himself, offering a small smile as the women returned. Whatever tension hung in the air a moment before seemed to dissipate as the family reunited, and the room brightened with their presence.

XXX

Godfrey stood beside Griffon, gripping the rough wood of the stable door as they worked to repair the damage left by the Gauntlet. The wind bit at his fingers, but the sun, weak as it was in the winter sky, gave a little warmth. His muscles ached, not yet completely ready for hard labor, but it felt good to be doing something again, to be useful.

Griffon, ever the silent taskmaster, handed him a hammer and a handful of nails, nodding to where the door frame needed reinforcing. “Hold it steady.”

Relatively nearby, Mary and Emily were busy hanging up laundry, their voices carrying on the wind. Godfrey’s face flushed slightly when he saw some of his own clothes on the line, freshly cleaned and drying in the winter sun. Mary had apparently taken the liberty of washing them, and now they fluttered alongside the family’s garments. He hadn’t expected such kindness, and the thought of the two women handling his travel-worn clothes made him feel more exposed than it should have.

Griffon noticed his expression and chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, lad. They’ve done that for years—can’t help themselves but take care of things, fix things up, keep people going.”

Godfrey gave a small, appreciative nod but still felt a bit self-conscious. He glanced over at Emily, who was laughing at something Mary said. Her laughter rang out, light and clear.

XXX

That evening, after a dinner of hearty stew filled with root vegetables and thick chunks of venison, paired with fresh bread baked by Mary, Godfrey bid everyone good evening. The warmth of the meal had settled into his bones, and for the first time in weeks, he felt a semblance of comfort returning. He pushed himself up from the table, thanked Mary for the food, and made his way back to the larder where his makeshift bed awaited him.

As Godfrey walked through the cool night air, the quiet crunch of his boots on the frosted ground was the only sound in the stillness. He made his way toward the larder, his breath misting in front of him as he exhaled, when a voice called out from behind.

"Godfrey?"

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He stopped and turned to see Emily stepping outside, her arms folded around a bundle. The soft glow from the house’s half-shuttered windows cast a faint light on her face, her breath visible in the night air.

Emily shifted her weight from foot to foot, clutching the blankets and pillow tightly to her chest. "I thought maybe I could help you fix up your bed a bit," she said, her voice quieter now, uncertainty creeping in.

Godfrey’s heart skipped. He wasn’t blind to how she looked, how close she was. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "I, uh, don’t think that’s the best idea," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Your father made things... very clear."

He meant it as a joke, but the way Emily’s eyes narrowed told him she wasn’t laughing. Her grip tightened on the blankets. "My father doesn’t get to control everything I do, Godfrey," she said, her tone firm but controlled.

Godfrey opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Emily brushed past him, her shoulder lightly grazing his as she made her way to the larder. The door creaked open, and she stepped inside, carrying the blankets and pillow with her.

Godfrey truly had no idea what to do now. He felt as if this was his greatest trial yet.

Emily popped her head back out of the larder, raising an eyebrow. "Are you coming, or what?" she asked, her voice tinged with impatience.

Godfrey, against his general sense of survival, followed her inside.

Standing there awkwardly, Godfrey scratched the back of his neck, watching Emily move about the small space, adjusting the blankets and pillow with more vigor than was strictly necessary. He considered leaving, retreating to some corner of the farm where he could avoid this conversation altogether, but something told him that might only make things worse.

"Emily, I..." He hesitated, unsure of what to say that wouldn’t upset her further. He wasn’t used to these kinds of situations—especially when it involved someone’s daughter, someone who had just threatened to murder him if things got out of hand.

Emily straightened, throwing him a glance over her shoulder, her frustration softening. "What?" she asked, but her tone wasn’t as harsh now. She looked at him expectantly, as if daring him to say the wrong thing, but also wanting him to say something meaningful.

Godfrey stepped inside the larder, awkwardly shifting his weight between his feet. "I didn’t mean to offend you," he said quietly. "It’s just... I’ve already caused enough trouble here. I don’t want to make things harder."

Emily huffed, shaking her head as she finished tucking the last blanket in place. "You’re not making things harder. You’re making them strange."

That caught him off guard. "Strange?"

"Yes, strange," she said, turning to face him fully now. "You’re acting like I’m some fragile thing that’ll break if you talk to me. I’m just trying to help you sleep a little better, Godfrey. Nothing more."

Godfrey swallowed, feeling the weight of her words. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was acting strange, letting Griffon’s warning control his every move around her. "I’m sorry," he said, softer this time.

Emily nodded, her expression softening even more. "Good. Now lie down and see if that’s more comfortable."

Godfrey obeyed, sitting down on the bench and lying back. The extra layer of blankets and the pillow made a world of difference, and he could already feel his body relaxing into it.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much," he replied, a small, grateful smile forming on his face.

Emily stood there for a moment, her arms folded, watching him. She gave him a final nod, satisfied, and turned toward the door. "Goodnight, Godfrey."

"Goodnight," he murmured, watching as she left, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, Godfrey felt a strange sense of peace settle over him.

Then his mind darkened, and he slipped into his dreams.

XXX

In the realm of his dreams, Godfrey willed the scene to unfold. His surroundings blurred, colors morphing and swirling like paint spilled across a canvas, until they coalesced into a vision he knew well. The bright blue and pink cloud-castle towered above him, its spires reaching for the heavens, like a fevered child's fantasy. It was a castle built on memories, not reality. At the top, where the sky seemed to meet the earth, his family fought—his aunts, his uncles, all of them locked in battle against the inevitable.

In this warped version of his dreams, Godfrey found himself standing at the base of the castle, the ground beneath his feet soft like cotton candy but cold, the air thick and heavy with the metallic scent of blood.

Knight Corvin stood above him, higher on the spiraling staircases that stretched into the clouds, clad in the same black armor Godfrey had last seen him wear. Corvin’s cruel smile gleamed beneath the polished surface of his helm, his eyes hollow with the promise of death. The cruel glint in his gaze was exactly as it had been that night—only now, in this dream, it was more vivid, more monstrous.

Godfrey summoned his swords to his hands, felt their familiar weight in his palms, and with a burst of raw energy, charged up the stairway. His muscles coiled like a serpent ready to strike, but even in the dream, he could feel the unnatural tension in his body. He knew this wasn’t real, and yet, he Focussed every fiber of his being into the fight. He wanted to win, even if only in his dreams.

He swung his blade in a perfect arc, aiming for Corvin’s side, the spot just between the plates of armor where he thought the knight might be vulnerable. The blade crashed into Corvin’s side with a force that should have cleaved him in two—but instead, Corvin moved as if it were nothing. His sword parried Godfrey’s strike effortlessly, spinning him around like a rag doll.

Godfrey stumbled, only to catch himself, his heart pounding with the rhythm of battle. He tightened his grip on his sword and lunged again, the blade singing through the air. Again, Corvin blocked it with a flick of his wrist, his cruel smile widening beneath the visor. This time, Corvin’s sword sliced through the air, cutting through the dream-Godfrey’s chest. The pain was searing—white-hot and sudden—and then he died.

Only, he didn’t.

In the instant after his death, the dream reset, Godfrey summoned again to the foot of the stairway. The cold metal of his swords reappeared in his hands, and the battle began anew.

He tried a different sword form, one that required nimble footwork and lightning-fast strikes, aiming for Corvin’s legs. He Focussed his blood, Controlled his muscles to move faster than he ever could in the waking world, pushing the limits of his body in ways that would tear him apart if this were real. His body spun like a dancer, the sword whirling in his hands. But Corvin matched him strike for strike, the knight’s movements slower, heavier, but infinitely more precise. Every attack Godfrey launched was deflected, every trick countered with mechanical efficiency.

Godfrey cursed, sweat dripping down his brow despite the surreal nature of the dream. He tried throwing his blades, a desperate gambit, aiming for Corvin’s throat. But Corvin caught the blade midair and tossed it aside as though it were nothing.

Godfrey’s heart raced with frustration. He switched tactics, diving into the dirt beneath the stairwell, kicking up clouds of sand and dust, blinding Corvin momentarily—or so he thought. He leaped at the knight, intent on grappling, using the dirt to gain the upper hand. His arms wrapped around Corvin’s torso, fingers searching for a weak point in the armor.

But Corvin didn’t falter. His gauntleted fist smashed into Godfrey’s ribs, and he was thrown to the ground. Corvin’s sword came down, cleaving into Godfrey’s flesh, and once again, Godfrey died.

And again, the dream reset.

Each time, Godfrey tried something new—faster strikes, different forms, brutal and unrelenting attacks. He bent the rules of his own body, using his blood, muscles, and Control in ways that defied nature. He dodged inhumanly fast, moved with the grace of a shadow, twisted and turned his limbs until they cracked under the strain of his unnatural movements.

But every effort was repulsed. Corvin was an immovable force, a black specter that stood between Godfrey and the future he sought.

The knight’s cruel smile remained unchanging, his sword always finding its mark, and every time Godfrey was struck down, he rose again, only to fall once more.

The endless cycle repeated, dream after dream, strike after strike, death after death.

And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperately he fought, Knight Corvin was untouchable—an unbreakable wall in Godfrey’s mind.

Frustration boiling in his chest, Godfrey let go of the fight. He slipped away from the battlefield and into his true dreams, leaving his relentless foe behind in the fog of his mind.